


Permanence in Motion

by keire_ke



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Dollhouse AU, Gen, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-16
Updated: 2014-10-16
Packaged: 2018-02-21 10:57:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2465750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/keire_ke/pseuds/keire_ke
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Permanence is not a concept that holds a lot of weight in the Dollhouse. Natasha learned this in about five minutes, which is another thing about the Dollhouse: you learn quickly, or you are cordially thanked for your time and escorted to the hidden door.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Permanence in Motion

**Author's Note:**

> Betaed by Nyxira.

Permanence is not a concept that holds a lot of weight in the Dollhouse. Natasha learned this in about five minutes, which is another thing about the Dollhouse: you learn quickly, or you are cordially thanked for your time and escorted to the hidden door with a sizeable consolation fee, one substantial enough to buy complete silence.

She watches the dolls wander across the social area, smiling at one another and the Dollhouse employees, pretty, mindless, happy. It's not a bad life, she thinks sometimes.

"Everything all right?" Clint wanders to her side, hands in the pockets of his slacks. Natasha offers a smile, then looks back down at the main floor, a fond dream of any design enthusiast. Merely being aware of the precarious arrangement of plants, hardwood, stone and water fixtures engenders peace in the soul, let alone looking at them for any length of time.

"Am I crouching behind something with a gun in my hand?" Natasha asks, the smile still dancing in the corners of her mouth.

"You don't seem to be, but I've been wrong before." Clint scratches his ear under the hearing aid as he joins her at the railing. "You don't look relaxed. We get perks enough, c'mon, go take a dip in the Jacuzzi. The dolls won't mind the company."

"We're going out tonight," she says.

He raises a brow and the smiles slides off his face. "So soon?"

"Sergeant is a popular choice."

"I've noticed. You're in and out so often, the door hardly ever stops revolving."

"Are you worried you'll be out of a job because of him?"

Clint shrugs. "I don't mind staying in. The food they serve here is unbelievable."

"They're serving latkes tonight," Natasha tells him. She could almost hear the sizzling. If she's lucky she'll manage to wheedle a couple to go.

"Then I'm really glad I'm staying." He's looking down, where, as it happens, Natasha's Sergeant and Carter's Captain are playing Jenga. Natasha lets her gaze slide that way briefly, but Sergeant looks content with the way the blocks move under his fingertips, so she looks away.

"Hey, Romanoff!"

They both turn. Stark is fiddling with something shiny, something that lights up suspiciously bright and suspiciously blue. "What?" she asks, standing at attention.

"Fury just granted me a virtual audience, and apparently your timetable has moved. They want the Sergeant prepped and ready to go in half an hour, which, let me tell you, insane – I didn't get specs until fifteen minutes ago, and even I can't throw together a masterpiece of a brain in fifteen minutes." Stark frowns at the cube he's assembling, turns it sideways and hisses. "Damn." Two quick twists and the glow dies down and the whole thing disappears into his pocket.

"We weren't due to leave until eighteen-hundred," Natasha says, frowning. "Sergeant still needs a medical check-up." Staying until six was cutting it close anyway – thorough medical check-ups were mandatory after prolonged romantic assignments. Let it never be said the Dollhouse trusted its clients, Natasha thought wryly, thinking on the thick personal files every potential client was required to supply.

Stark, however, waves her off. "Well, our illustrious client got an urgent phone call, and that stresses him out, or whatever. Maybe his masseuse cancelled on him. You're going away for the week, it turns out, and you are leaving soon. His last check-up was fine, wasn't it?"

Natasha feels her frown deepen. "We just got back this morning. Protocol demands at least twenty-four hours downtime between assignments that last longer than a day."

"Yeah, well, take it up with Fury." Stark pulls a thin bag of raisins out of a back pocket and waves them in the air. "I just push the buttons."

"You just said you can't throw together anything functional in fifteen minutes."

"I said I need time to create a masterpiece of a brain. He's gonna be functional, I'm not an amateur, please. It’s not like Pierce is looking for a sparkling conversationalist, or an original imprint, anyway. He likes Sarge to pretend he's a marble statue, and he always asks for the same imprint. How is that any fun?" Stark shakes his head and looks first at her then Clint for an answer.

She stays silent, but Clint's shoulders roll into a tight circle which Natasha knows to interpret as "yeah, don't really get it either." She has half a mind to deck him for it, but now's not the time.

"I don't like it." Natasha has no morality. She wouldn't be working here if she did. What she has instead is an understanding that crossing a line drawn in quicksand can only lead to one destination.

Out of the corner of her eye she sees that the table below is empty, the tower of Jenga blocks toppled. She can't see the dolls from where she's standing, but soon enough she hears footsteps – they are ascending the stairs, Captain and Sergeant both, likely on their way to the canteen.

"Oh, that's convenient," Stark says, turns around in the direction of the medical bay and hollers, "Banner! C'mon, I need a stamp of approval from you."

Natasha crosses the walkway to stop him from ducking back into his kingdom of ethically dubious science. "This is a breach of protocol."

"Yeah, but I've Fury's authorization. We got a priority on this one, code magenta, or what have you. I don't bother memorizing those, but JARVIS tells me code's neon enough to justify breach in protocol." For a second something that almost looks like human sympathy flashes through Stark's eyes, quickly replaced by intense curiosity. "What do you think Pierce does with him for a week, anyway? You'd think the man would worry about a heart attack or something."

"He's not ready," Natasha says.

"You filed a report at noon, and you ticked all the boxes."

"The report asks me to evaluate his condition post-assignment, I detected nothing out of the ordinary, but it doesn't mean he's ready. I'm not a doctor. I'm not a neurologist."

"Again, don't shoot the messenger. For real." Stark holds up his hands and shoots a pointed look at the milky windows two stories up. "You gonna complain, complain to the people with executive power. In the meantime, go work your magic." He nods at the two approaching dolls.

Natasha takes a deep breath. This is the third breach of protocol in two months, and the most serious one, at that: a whole week only a few hours after a previous assignment? It's unheard of.

On the other hand, what can she do? She lets her face melt into a gentle smile and steps into the dolls' path. "Hello, Sergeant," she says, struck once again with how poorly the moniker fits the person it's attached to. Military ranks as codenames for child-like puppets, she scoffs. Ridiculous. "It's time for your treatment."

The doll blinks and a slow, uncertain smile crosses his features. His body is about Natasha's age, handsome and very nearly her type, all in all, but after a year and change of looking at him smile like this made even thinking of him as a man difficult. He's a child, Natasha thinks with clinical detachment. A child who's been tended to by inhuman creatures its whole life.

"I enjoy my treatments," Sergeant says as he starts to move in Stark's direction. Natasha steps out of his way and looks at Clint. Her eyes flicker to Fury's windows, and he gives her an affirmative blink in return, followed by an incredulous stare. Natasha turns and finds that Sergeant didn't budge past the first two steps; his wrist is caught in Captain's grip, and the two dolls are staring at one another.

"Don't leave," Captain says.

"Can I just say holy fucking shit?" Stark asks from the side, jaw slack. Natasha finds herself agreeing, despite the part of her that knows agreeing with Stark is a bad fucking plan.

"I enjoy my treatments," Sergeant repeats, but it sounds like a question. It shouldn't sound like a question, Natasha thinks, and clenches her fists. The doll is supposed to drop everything and joyously report for treatment, yet Sergeant turns away from Stark, hand twisting so that his palm is wrapped around Captain's wrist.

"Treatments make you sad," Captain says, a deep frown marring his otherwise angelic features and the Sergeant frowns in response. His lips part, but he doesn't have words to respond, he shouldn't have the ability to comprehend the statement in the first place.

"Code bright neon yellow," Stark mutters under his breath, waving his hands up and down, displaying either a profound lack of color perception, or an utter disrespect to the idea of codes as means of communication. "Code surface of the fucking sun!"

Natasha ignores him. Both Captain and Sergeant are tall men at the peak of physical fitness: either could pick her up with one hand and toss her through a basketball hoop. Natasha knows this, intellectually, which is why she's tense when she steps between them. They are dolls, however; she doesn't even need to apply force to separate them. "It's time for your treatment," she says with a little more urgency, taking Sergeant by the hand and leading him into Stark's lab. He climbs obediently into the chair once she makes him turn his back and Captain is out of sight, lies back, and smiles the child-like guileless smile, thank god for small miracles.

Natasha watches his face for signs of discomfort, but the imprint presents no problems, not according to Stark, anyway. When the lights in the imprinting module dim Sergeant straightens in the chair, no longer child-like, his face set in an expressionless mask, as per the client's specification. "On your feet, soldier," Natasha commands and he rises, every muscle taut and ready for battle, even as he stands at parade rest.

"And here we go, one perfect soldier, so rare he's practically mooing. Looks like it took, no problem. All the same, I'm gonna give Cap a good brain-scrub, and we'll see about Sarge when he gets back." Stark shakes his head and snaps his fingers, until all the screens fill with brain scans. "You may be on to something, with the protocol thing," he says.

"Yes," Natasha says, but what she really means is "no". It's not the lapses in protocol. It's the fact that the Captain is still standing there when they exit the imprinting room, forlorn and lost, waiting. Where the fuck is Carter, Natasha wonders when he looks up and catches the sight of them as they walk out. He takes a step forward, but Natasha doesn't let herself or Sergeant slow down, not for one moment. Soon as they get back, she vows, she'll be handling this. In the meantime, she has a job to do.


End file.
